


sans winter, sans summer, sans everything

by ivanolix



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon - Book, Changing Tenses, Future Fic, Gen, POV Female Character, Siblings, Sisters, Snow and Ice, Tragedy, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 09:50:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/525980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanolix/pseuds/ivanolix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa and other Stark siblings face the snow. Spoilers through ADWD and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sans winter, sans summer, sans everything

The last time it snowed, it seemed that every flake was a bit of happiness. Even Jon smiled. Bran and Arya had squealed and tumbled into the nearest soft white pile, not bothering to layer on the furs. They seemed to forget that snow came with cold Robb had helped Rickon bundle up, giggling as if he was eight and not fourteen, and Sansa couldn't figure out how a young lady should react to the snowfall...so for that day, she was just Sansa.

The last time it had snowed, they'd pelted her with snowballs and she'd squeaked, but though ladies did not start fights they  _could_  finish them, and Arya and Bran alike yelped in protest when she pinned them and rubbed snow all over. 

The last time it had snowed, she was cold and happy and thought that winter might not be so bad if it ever came.

This time when it snowed, Petyr kissed her. Some might say that a kiss was better than a snowball strike, but the cold went deeper and no happiness followed.

Someday, it would snow again, as Maege Mormont brought her to Winterfell and read aloud Robb's letter. The last she would ever have of her brother, for the Freys had done away with the rest piece by piece. "Does it count?" she would ask, her breath visible, making her wonder if each one let a little bit of life fly from her. "Jon Stark is dead," Maege would say, her calloused hand gripping Sansa's shoulder so hard it would nearly hurt.

It would snow again, perhaps, as Sansa went to the Wall. Jon had been only a half brother but his body would be with the Night's Watch and she had no other bodies to mourn. Each falling flake would fail to melt in her hair, so it seemed to grey, whiten, making her as gaunt as a centuries-old corpse. Jon would barely look more alive, but the rumors of his death had been greatly exaggerated.

It would snow again when they went further North, following Samwell Tarly's revelation about Bran and Rickon. The heart-tree would keep the snow from touching the ground around Bran's roots. Sansa touched the bark and it nearly burned her hand with cold. Jon whispered something to the tree, but Sansa had nothing to say. She would cradle her hand as tears froze on her cheeks. This time she would be the one who forgot to keep warm. Bran would be fine.

Winter had come, and even on the sea it snowed. The waves would pound her and Jon's ship towards Skagos and the wind blow frozen water into her eyes. Rickon would be old enough to throw the snow at her head this time, but not with laughter. Harsh, wild, strange; he wanted her dead. She would wonder how he couldn't see that half of her already was. Kneeling in the snow, she would offer out her hands and keep them offered for half a day. Rickon stayed, hesitating, for hours on end. Then he turned and left Skagos' coast to find the inland again. Stark no more. She might have let the snow bury her, but Jon took her to the ship and wrapped his cold bony arms around her body.

Then it would snow when Arya returned, the forgotten child, looking uncomfortable in her own skin. Sansa wouldn't know how a young lady should react to such a thing...so for that moment, she was just Sansa. Arya stood as a tower, but Sansa crossed the courtyard and took her hand. It would be warmer than the snowfall. "Remember," Sansa whispered. "I try not to," Arya whispered back. "If we don't, there's no one left who ever will. It is our duty." Arya's hand would then grip Sansa's as if trying to break it. "You sound like mother."

They would stand, holding hands, while the snow fell. Arya could no longer squeal and laugh, and Sansa had hardly ever learned how. The snow still seemed like happiness, but that was no good thing. Happiness like snow fell to the ground to be crushed by a thousand feet, to melt into the mud, to be forgotten.

The next time the snow would fall, they would not venture out into it. Cold bit deep and only another summer could ease the bite. Sansa would sit by Winterfell's fire, Arya at her feet, fingers tangled tighter than any knot. They waited for the sun as they once waited for snow. Summer children no more. 


End file.
